hepta
by Albino Magpie
Summary: The seven deadly sins and seven twisted loves of Alfred Jones.
1. Gluttony

„Your gluttony will be the ruin of you yet."

Ivan said, shifting his shoulders so he rested more comfortably on the mountain of throw pillows, and threw a critical look at Alfred, who was completely engrossed in arranging an impressive array of edible items on the already overburdened bedstand. The latter looked up as he was addressed, and smiled behind his vaguely clouded glasses.

„I prefer to refer to myself as indulgent," he replied,"and occasionally, as I will admit, somewhat greedy. And I suppose far other things will, if anything, be the ruin of me."

He made a point of looking at Ivan with an intensity that clearly suggested _he _was the aforementioned thing likely to bring about Alfred's ruin. Normally, in this new era of scabbed-over animosity and the first hints of healing in a relationship strained almost beyond repair, Ivan would have been only too glad to lay ruin to, well...

To lay ruin not to Alfred himself, but to his composure, his calm, his ability to form a clear sentence not punctuated and interrupted by moans and gasps. It was a play-version of ruining, a sweetened version, one that he thoroughly enjoyed. Normally.

Tonight, however, Alfred had somehow convinced him to take on the passive part. Ivan tugged at the bands that secured him to the bedframe. They were theatrical but flimsy, a purely symbolic restraint.

It was really quite pleasant to settle back into a heap of cushions and let someone else take charge for a little while.

Alfred had selected a bottle of chocolate syrup from the massive collection of edibles, things like whipped cream, strawberries, honey and even some sprinkles that all screamed "I am going to put this on my lover tonight."

Ivan suppressed a laugh as he imagined the looks on the faces of the vendors. It was as ridiculous, sweet and overdone as Alfred himself.

The latter had unscrewed the chocolate syrup, and squeezed a sizeable portion of it on Ivan's torso, cold and sticky against his bare skin. The older nation squinted at what Alfred was doing, and realized he was attempting to _write_ something. How typical.

After some exerted upside-down examination of the sticky mess, he realized Alfred had just scrawled "Commie" all over his chest.

Ivan writhed in his entirely inadequate bonds, which somehow refused to give despite being utterly flimsy.

"That's inaccurate! And _cold_!"

Alfred either hadn't heard him, or, more likely, pretended so, because he didn't pause in his work of decorating the very much obsolete slur with several handfuls of sprinkles.

_Red _sprinkles, no doubt also owing to Alfred's – inaccurate and obsolete – sense of humor, if not his addiction to all things strawberry-flavoured.

Ivan would have been severely put out about the indirect insults applied directly to his skin in form of chocolate syrup of all things. He didn't get very far in that train of thought, however, as it was promptly derailed by a warm, wet, and by now delightfully familiar tongue running all the way from his navel to his collarbone, making his skin tingle and ridding it of some of the sticky-sweet liquid. Alfred had seemingly opted for removing his graffiti again.

Ivan tried in vain not to squirm as Alfred ate up more and more of the syrup, employing his lips and tongue, and occasionally even his teeth. He only stopped when his former adversary's skin was entirely free of chocolate, and his eyes had slipped shut in a surrender to both the sensations and their cause.

He started, fully alert again, when he felt a new assault of cold, viscous liquid on his overheated skin. Alfred was clutching a glass of honey in one hand, and using two fingers of the other to apply a trail from Ivan's chin down to his ribs.

"I _am_ feeling like overindulging tonight." he mumbled, more to himself. Ivan wanted to reply something (he wasn't sure what), but was silenced by two honey-coated fingers slipping into his mouth. He sucked on them, pleased by the accelerated breathing that seemed to effectuate, and then bit down playfully. That made Alfred withdraw his fingers hastily, only to shove them back so forcefully it was probably intended to cause discomfort. However, it rather caused the opposite.

From the corner of his eye, Ivan could see Alfred had picked up a strawberry, and then he felt the fruit run all over his skin, like a cold, damp tongue, leaving behind a trail of sweet red juice.

Alfred leaned down for a kiss that more than proved his gluttonous nature.

_Eat me, drink me, _Ivan thought, _I'm your sin. _


	2. Lust

Matthew takes a deep breath, nostrils and head filling with the unmistakable scent of his brother's skin – smog, baking bread and an underlying hint of deep, damp forests. The same forests he runs his fingers through when they tangle in Alfred's sweat-soaked hair. The latter fidgets, blue eyes ever-moving and nervous behind his spectacles, and stammers out an almost inaudible word.

"Please."

Matthew balls his hands into fists, trying to dispel the lingering awkwardness, and feels centuries melt away. He dips his head to take a taste of his brother's mouth, and doesn't come up for a long time. He is used to this, used to being with his brother, and any hint of guilt is swiftly blown away by the overwhelming love he feels.

He does something to Alfred's bottom lip that makes the other gasp sharply, and is rewarded for his - admittedly sweet - troubles when his twin grabs two fistfuls of his shirt and pulls him down. They're pressed together in a tangle of limbs on a scratched-up leather couch. The thing is something Matthew salvaged from his basement, and it's so old he's sure it signifies something. He just can't tell _what_.

When they were children, only half-civilized despite everyone's best efforts, teetering on the edge of puberty, they used to go to the basement sometimes, crawl onto this same couch and press their bodies together in a clumsy, shameful whirlwind of exploration.

Matthew feels like a kid again. His brother had always been so insistent, babbling about something-or-the-other he'd found in a book, and how _good _it was supposed to feel. But between the two, all of his bravado dropped, and Matthew was the one who had to take the initiative.

Another thing that hasn't changed at all.

Legs tangle around him, pulling their still clothed bodies together. Matthew lets his head sink on the body beneath his, lips pressed to an exposed collarbone, and revels in the sensations washing over him. He can only guess at how different it is for Alfred, who is half-sick and stung with guilt.

And enjoys the shame just much as the touches that cause it.

"C'mon, Mattie," the voice is soft, almost whining, and the words are supported by hands gliding over his back, the bumps of his spine,"_say _something!"

Alfred is pleading with him, pleading for something he doesn't like to give. But he loves his brother, enough to seem something of a pushover when all he wants is to make him happy.

The question remains – how does _that_ make Alfred happy?

"This is wrong, Al, and everyone who saw us would tell us so. We're _brothers." _

He doesn't know how well he plays the admonishing part, but it's seemingly well enough, as Alfred gasps, half-shoves him away and then pulls him in again, even tighter than before.

"This is sin." Matthew says, feeling Alfred twist and twitch at the last word. He imagines the sparks of pleasure that the guilt and shame send through his twin, and feels his own face grow increasingly hotter. Alfred tilts his head back, eyes silently begging for a kiss, and Matthew obliges. When the contact reaches sweet, melting fever-pitch, he pulls away as if his lips have been burned.

"We shouldn't be _doing _this." he says, trying to sound as guilty as he can manage.

They love each other, it feels wonderful, of course they should be doing it!

Alfred nods weakly, mutters a weak "Sh-shameful-" and pulls him in for another kiss, even longer and wetter than the last. Matthew is the one to break the kiss again, giving his brother's lips a last, slow lick.

"It's shameful, sinful, disgusting." he says, his voice not quite shaking. Alfred squirms at each word, pressing their hips together tighter, and squeezes his eyes shut.

"Open your eyes," he doesn't like commanding like that, and if he does, it's only a little. But he does oblige his brother wills, ridiculous though they may be,"not looking at me doesn't make it any less wrong. We should be ashamed of ourselves."

Alfred has worked one hand between their bodies, fumbling with the zipper of his jeans. Matthew grinds against the pressure, head reeling, attempting to formulate a clear sentence.

"Sin," he chokes out, having no more breath to spare,"incest, wrong, shameful, abomination..."

Each gasped word makes Alfred's hands work more feverishly, and so he keeps going, trying to think of anything that will invoke the guilt he is free of.

His vision almost goes blank.

_I love you, Al. _

"You want me," he chokes out,"I'm your sin."


End file.
